Hollow
by O.J.Everett
Summary: After a successful protest the humans are driven from Detroit and Jericho celebrate their victory. Despite his deviancy, Connor can't seem to shake the niggling feeling something has gone wrong. Did the success warrant his sacrifice? (Oneshot following 'Sacrifice Hank' choice)


(A/N: Just a quick wee piece to get it out of my brain and down on the page. Got some other aftermath stories coming, although probably longer. Hit 'em up, if interested)

The immediate aftermath had been a temperate roaring in his ears. Markus had prevailed, the androids of Detroit were free and humans would now have to consider them in their progression into the future. But Connor was sure something had bugged in his system - perhaps a strike from RK 900 had damaged his microphone? What else could account for such an incessant tone? Upon checking over his system, however, the only parts of him that were damaged surrounded the bullet hole in his upper abdomen. For an instant he humoured the idea of contacting CyberLife for a checkup, but his farewell to Amanda by defying her final command didn't leave him optimistic about the idea.

As androids proclaimed to the heavens, cheering and crying, Connor offered a silent nod to Markus as he slipped from the makeshift stage. Away from the congregation. Down desolate city streets. He wasn't sure where he was going, just that he had to be elsewhere. Yet even while distanced from the throng the din persisted. He offered a slight grimace, a signal of irritation. Perhaps once his feet carried him to the place he needed to be it would cease?

It was snowing. Sparse flakes drifted down to collect with their fallen kin on the concrete below. As Connor progressed the muddied footprints from hurried, evacuating humans were gradually being covered up. In some of the literature he had absorbed prior the authors may have depicted this event as a metaphor. He had no such inclination. Though it did interest him to see how the streetlights left small rainbows dotting the snowfall. The infrequent flutter of a pigeon drew his gaze from time to time. In a gradual stretching of its maw, the deserted concrete jungle swallowed him in its placidity.

The android violently started himself out of standby mode as he recognised a street. How long had he been drifting in monotonous reticence? His clock suggested about an hour. Before him was Lieutenant Anderson's former home. The clamour of his microphone remained, suggesting he hadn't yet reached his target location. But Sumo would be in the house, alone, waiting for its owner to return. Connor approached the residence with a dim sense of unease.

The window he had broken to access the building previously was boarded over. Knowing Hank it would only be a precaution, the effort of actually boarding over a window when he had a functioning guard dog was pointless to exert. Connor applied some pressure to the wood. The board popped off the sill and clattered to the ground. The muscles around his jaw started pulling themselves into a smile but it didn't feel _right_. The context for emulation was off. Connor returned to his stoic expression before attempting entry. Having learnt from his previous less than graceful entrance, the android succeeded in clambering through without dropping to the floor. It was standing this time that he surveyed the Saint Bernard. It tilted its head, ears and mouth flopping with the motion. Connor offered a smile, dropping to one knee to pet it.

"Hello, Sumo." The dog seemed more interested in sniffing Connor's palm and front. The last place its' owner had been. There was still a smear of red on the CyberLife-issued jacket. Connor felt his brow furrow as this thought came to him. He stood, distracting himself from that notion. Sumo remained sitting where it had approached the intruder. A soft whine emitted from the dog's mouth. Was the creature sad? Did it have an idea about what had occurred? Back at CyberLife, the scene would have been interesting - a storage room empty but for a corpse and a destroyed android. What would they do with the body? Dispose of it? Give it back to Hank's next of kin? The latter had about 11% likelihood in Connor's mind when considering the legality of what had happened. Why did this bother him? A corpse is not the person.

Vexed by these distractions, the android moved. He took a step forward. Another. Towards the living room. It was dark, neither messy nor organised, just as it had been the first visit. His feet would take him no further. He had reached his destination. So why had the roaring not concluded? If anything it was louder, demanding attention. Like tracks, rumbling beneath feet that only hours before were sturdy and grounded. Apprehension was dawning on Connor. Something was closing in on him, something larger than this environment. How could it reach him in this area? Surely such a colossal threat would be stuck outside?

And then it hit.

The force of it sent him reeling, collapsing onto all fours, head bowed, jaw clenched. What was happening? Fingers balled into fists as he glowered at the ground. Expression contorted, beyond his control. A warning flashed. ' **Stress Level: 68%** ' His eyelids twitched. Sensors told him liquid was pooling from the 'tear ducts', disrupting his vision, falling to the fibres of the carpet beneath him. ' **Stress Level: 73%** '. One arm firmly curled around his lower abdomen, tightening. An alien sensation had begun. Tension, causing his inner-workings to feel both taut and hollow simultaneously. ' **Stress Level: 75%** '.

Onto his side but he hardly noticed, confused by the array of warnings and sensory alerts that were fighting to be acknowledged first. Was he dying? What else could produce such a condition? ' **Stress Level: 87%** '. Did Hank feel this as he faded away? Why had he been so still and peaceful? This was not a gentle abatement, Connor felt like he was being torn apart. Was Hank the source of this? Could the death of the Lieutenant be the source of this ordeal?

A sound tore itself from his speaker. A sob? His cheeks were saturated. He was shaking, quivering, writhing in what he assumed the humans called agony. He hadn't saved Hank. He had prioritised the liberation, but at what cost? How could this be worth it? ' **Stress Level: 71%** '. Knowing the cause of this affliction was calming. Strain on his hardware was fading alongside his confusion, leaving his frame a barren cavern, consumed by the invisible beast.

As Connor wept in a freshly abandoned house the night sky gave way to frail tendrils of light.


End file.
